


Lost and wounded this heart that I misplaced

by Gweiddi_at_Ecate



Category: Snow White and the Huntsman, The Huntsman (Movies), The Huntsman: Winter War
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pre-Movie(s), Prequel, Slow Build, just filling plot holes really, pre-Snow White and the Huntsman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gweiddi_at_Ecate/pseuds/Gweiddi_at_Ecate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling plot-holes people didn't care about or perhaps didn't notice.</p><p>"She found him on the banks of the river. Eric remembered little of that night, only that he was freezing cold and soaked to the bone, and that there was a soft voice telling him to stay awake, which he failed to do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and wounded this heart that I misplaced

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this because I feel the physical need to fill whichever plot hole I come across, and this one specifically irked me: in SWATH Finn said the Huntsman's wife had died screaming his name - I didn't dream of it, did I? - but that's not what we see in THWW, and even then it's not like Finn and Ravenna were exactly speaking with Freya so, yeah, it irked me quite a lot.  
> Also writing this because rough men struggling with the death of their beloved are the people I most relate to. My life is such a joke.  
> The title quotes the song Hymn For The Missing by Red. You should listen to it, it's beautiful.
> 
> I'm not a native English-speaker (duh) so be merciful with possible mistakes: if you find any, please tell me and I will happily correct them.

She found him on the banks of the river. Eric remembered little of that night, only that he was freezing cold and soaked to the bone, and that there was a soft voice telling him to stay awake, which he failed to do.

Apparently, he woke up two days later, or so she told him. She took care of his wounds, and she even managed to find some clothes for him. The breeches were a little too large on the waist and the sleeves too short on his wrists, but his shoulders fitted, and once he wore his boots no one would see his ankles showed, and he didn’t care anyway.

She was tall, slender, her hands were those of a hard worker, calloused and strong, but she had long blonde curls, and soft skin on her arms. She didn’t dare to laugh, only smiled quietly. She was so afraid of him, Eric had wondered why she had saved him at all.

It wasn’t a Christian thing to do, leaving a man to die in the wild, she answered.

But what if the man deserved to die? What if he _wanted_ to die? Because really, woman, he did. He deserved it and he wanted it.

She looked even more afraid, and he felt sorry for her. He begged for her forgiveness. She nodded and then left.

Her name was Sara. Eric didn’t know if he should have been laughing or crying. Was it Hell’s little gift, or Heaven’s disgusting mockery? It was probably neither. It was just life, and life was horror.

His first nights were punctuated by nightmares. He saw Sara – _his_ Sara, not the other one – dying a million deaths. Gutted, shot by arrows, poisoned, infected by diseases… just pick. He didn’t know he could be so imaginative. The ending was always the same: blood dripping and he wailing like a wounded beast.

He would always wake up breathless and soaked with sweat. Sometimes he also screamed. Those were the nights when Sara rushed to the guest room and stayed by the door until he calmed down. It took her a week before she felt confident enough to actually enter the room and sit by him on the bed. Eric already knew her hands were tender when she changed his bandages, but he would have never guessed they could be so gentle when caressing him either.

She wasn’t simply afraid of him: she was afraid of _men_. He didn’t know why, didn’t want to, because the faint quiver he noticed every time she tried to explain it made him sick. He had been through war and bloodshed since childhood, but certain kinds of violence still managed to upset him. And Sara looked so fragile – she was. And somehow, she wasn’t – he could see how some bastards had done things to her, and at the same time he really couldn’t understand why anyone would ever try to harm her. On his part, he was growing fiercely protective of her.

As months went by, it became clear Eric wasn’t going anywhere. People began referring to him as Sara’s husband. It seemed that everyone believed them to be married. When or how, the folks didn’t care: he was living with Sara, and she was too gracious and honest to live with a man who wasn’t her husband, so they had evidently got married without anyone knowing. That’s what the villagers thought.

They let them, because there was no point in telling otherwise. Sara could use the protection and maybe – but just maybe – Eric could use whatever it was that she brought him.

The neighbours even went as far as congratulating with them for the wedding, but why didn’t they celebrate it in the village church?

He came up with the first idiotic lie he could about old traditions from his country, and nonsense like that. His rough accent already marked him as a foreigner from the North, so why not use it at his advantage?

Sara blushed and timidly went along with his bullshit on private weddings bringing good luck. He was almost surprised they believed him but thanks to Freya no one knew anything about the Northern lands – he hated that something coming from Freya was actually helping him.

It was seriously a blessing that Sara had rescued him while coming back from her sister’s village. Her three-week absence was enough to make the story believable, and it wasn’t like said sister was ever going to come and disprove them: Sara and she had fought, something about being a disgraced woman, and her knowledge on herbs very close to witchcraft. Eric listened only to one half of it, then went outside. He figured cutting wood for the fireplace was better than punching the walls out of anger.

Later he told Sara her sister would do good if she never came across him. Instead of being scared, Sara looked grateful, and hugged him. He pretended not to notice the tears that wetted his shirt.

Sara tried to take him to her bed once. Just once. She had been strange for days, and then she tried, clumsily, awkwardly, to invite him. He flat out refused.

She was beautiful, he told her. And yes, he was definitely tempted, for he was a man and she was a woman – a very beautiful one, he repeated, just in case he hadn’t made himself clear the first time – and he actually felt for her, in a way. But he couldn’t. In his head, he was married. To a ghost, he admitted. He knew it was only a ghost, but she deserved better than a man who would lie with her thinking of another.

Never mind the fact the two shared the same name in an ironic twist of fate, or that Eric had already touched himself thinking about blonde hair and green eyes – he didn’t tell her those last details, obviously: Sara never knew about the other Sara or about the things he did when he was alone. And anyway, which was Sara and which was the _other_ Sara? Eric didn’t remember when he first confused them. He was a sick, sick man, and a horrible one.

He went hunting. Killing things was just Eric’s skill, it didn’t really change a lot from human preys to animal ones, you only needed to adjust the arrows to the ribs you targeted. Meat was treasured in a country starved by its own queen, and it paid a good deal, so Sara and he lived decently enough.

Ointments and herbs were as needed, so Eric scouted the forests for plants, and Sara sold her mixtures to the villagers – most of the time for half the expected price, but really, finding some flowers wasn’t a big deal, and being cold-hearted was his thing, not hers. Had it been any different, he would have died on the river bank. He knew it, so he never reprimanded her.

They spent an entire year together. Eric was grateful, although he believed he didn’t deserve that peace. However, he had it.

He trusted Sara. He trusted her so much that he told her his story – except the other-Sara part. The Sara part. His-Sara part. Damn, but weren’t they both his? In completely different ways, sure, but they were. _They were_ – and she looked at him for the whole time with bewildered eyes.

The ghost he was married to, was she from his story? From that awful, cold past?

Ah. That clear, yes?

Yes, indeed. He didn’t need to speak of her. She was present in every piece he had omitted. Because there were omitted pieces, she knew him well enough at that point to sense them.

It was heart-lifting. All their secrets were still there, carefully covered, but they knew where they were. They weren’t hidden anymore, only… clothed.

Even if he kissed her that night, kissed her on the lips, tasting her softly on his tongue, what Eric understood wasn’t passion, or affection – he already knew those things well enough – but friendship.

The night they offered shelter to some half-frozen wanderers, they realised the wedding farce wasn’t going to last, not when they still slept in different bedrooms.

They were forced to share the same bed, and thankfully enough Eric was a tidy person – military education did that to a man – and his habitual presence in the guest room was hardly noticeable, so no one suspected anything.

In the morning they woke up in an entanglement of arms and legs. Sara was blushing furiously and Eric went red and burning when he acknowledged the reason why. Such a stupid reaction from two grown-ups like them, really, but Sara’s modesty made Eric feel like an adolescent caught with his hands in his pants.

They barely spoke to each other until their passing guests left. Alone again, Eric stiffly apologised, and Sara told him it was nothing just as awkwardly. When they looked at each other, they laughed, and all was well again. They went to bed. Together.

He left for hunting. The animals were retreating in the deep of the forest, he was going to be away for a week, maybe a little less if he had some luck.

Was she going to be alright?

Yes, of course. She knew how to take care of herself, she had for some good years. And he had taught her how to throw a decent punch, so it wasn’t like she was completely defenceless, was it?

When he came back – four days, only four days later. He had been quick because he had that bad feeling lingering in his bones, and he just… – Sara wasn’t there.

He went to the neighbours, the nosy ones who had asked about their wedding. They were shaking with fear. Thank God he was there, thank God! The queen’s men, with her brother, that frightening man always clad in black...

And then he knew it.

He went home. He sat at the table, and he thought of Sara – his Sara and the other Sara, who were both _his_ and both _other_.

Finally, he allowed himself to cry.


End file.
